


Sherlock's Perplexing Computer Skills

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Computer Viruses, Cryptovirus, First Time, Irrelevant Mention of a Case, John Watson moonlights because he needs the money for Med School, John has plans to join the Army, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mention of cigarette smoking, Mobile Tech Support, Ransomware, Sherlock needs a Flatmate but I'm never quite sure why, Some Aggressive Sexual Banter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-06
Updated: 2016-04-06
Packaged: 2018-05-27 19:30:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6297196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock encounters a blue screen on his computer while investigating photos of a crime scene, and he needs help. John Watson is working with a mobile tech support company to make some extra money while finishing med school, and arrives at Baker Street. An education about virus definitions needs to occur, after a face palm or two when John realises that Sherlock has been searching the internet for things like nipple clamps and fetish clubs.</p><p>If Sherlock had ever been told about virus definitions, he probably deleted it. What John doesn't catch onto right away, is that Sherlock might be a bit more savvy than he lets on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sherlock's Perplexing Computer Skills

John checked his phone again, his evening shift was going to run late. Again. Studying for his med school exams after working tech support for the afternoon was getting old. And late. The address had to be up the block a bit. Speedy's Cafe, ah, there's the door numbered 221B. Client's name was Sherlock Holmes, and it rang a few bells of familiarity with John, but he couldn't recall quite why.  Throughout the course of his week, he encountered many people - staff, patients, other doctors in training, classmates, ancillary hospital staff - and a lot of names either looked or sounded familiar.

He rapped the knocker.

From inside, he heard a muffled, "Come!" and he climbed the steps to find the flat on the second floor with a good deal of clutter and restless energy of the customer who'd called for mobile tech support. There was a skull on the mantle and a knife stabbed into a randomly scribbled list, pinning it into the wall.

"John Watson.  With Mobile Computer Support." John flattened the lapel of his jacket to show the embroidered company patch, which was flagrantly ignored.  "Looking for Sherlock Holmes?"  When there was not a typical acknowledgement of the greeting, John continued. "You called about needing emergency computer work?"

"Obviously.  Fix it." A long arm gestured imperiously at the black-screened laptop on the table.   _Great_ , John realised, _a customer with a condescending attitude_.

John raised an irritated eyebrow in response, then sat down, tapped a few buttons, discovered the infamous and ominous blue screen, then set his bag down on the chair next to the table. "What were you last working on?"

"Case related search."

"On?"

"Website on nipple clamps and fetish practices.  There is a club nearby, apparently, for those interested in more information about it."

John glanced around the flat once more to determine if he felt imminently threatened by that statement, and he recounted mentally how many steps to the exit of the flat, and calculated how quickly he could get there if he needed a quick escape.  He didn't think it would be necessary, but made it a habit to be vigilant.  "Click on a link, did you?"

"Of course. Case related search, I told you. There were photos I needed to zoom in on."

John sighed. So much of his work was directly related to client inattentiveness or even stupidity, downloading or opening email files they should never open, visiting unsecured or harmful websites, clicking on links better left alone, and failure to take precautions. "What antivirus software are you running?"

"Antivirus software." Sherlock repeated John's words, and John wondered at the spoken echo tactic, knowing that he had also learned that verbal practice of repeating the last phrase to buy time, determine best course of action, particularly when a patient said something surprising, shocking, or just downright weird.

John had learned this a long time ago, perfected it, and gratefully used it earlier in the week.  The most recent occasion had to do with an anally inserted foreign body that would eventually require surgical removal. The surgeon had asked John, as chief surgical resident, to obtain a history, and in querying the patient as to onset of symptoms, the answer had been, "As soon as I lost my grip on the hoover attachment." It was all John could think to say as he parroted back the words 'grip on the hoover attachment.'

"Yes, antivirus software." John watched Sherlock's eyes flick briefly to him then back to whatever was holding his interest on his mobile. Nothing further was apparently going to be volunteered, so John launched into teacher mode. "To protect your computer. It prevents viruses and malware from getting installed. Really important if you are searching for things like nipple rings and..."

"Nipple _clamps_."

The client finally looked up at him, bright blue eyes lifting from his mobile, piercing and intense. John stared back for a moment, a bit taken aback at the gaze that seemed to omnisciently pierce his soul and read his thoughts, if such a thing were even possible. "Whatever," John said.

"They're very different. Nipple clamps are designed to combine pleasure and pain, while nipple rings can be decorative but when stimulated can create very pleasurable sensations."

"And you're researching these for a case, you said."

"I was." The eyes twinkled back at John. "Unless you can enlighten me from personal experience, perhaps?" The flirty tone was surprising, particularly as the work session was going to be sidelined until John got him back on line, hopefully.

"I'm not answering that," John said, having neither piercings nor any previous partners with unusual body jewellery.

"Coward." Sherlock's hand shot up quickly, brushed down the left side of John's shirt from collarbone to rib margin in a curiously brazen fact-finding mission.

John resisted both the urge to swat him away and the somewhat unexpected desire to lean in to the sensation of warm fingers lightly brushing against one of his most sensitive areas.  As it was, he was quietly pleased with himself that he didn't reflexively recoil.  Or grab the offending wrist with intent to injure.

Sherlock noticed, John could tell, unable to stop the quick smirk at John's reaction, and his expression settled on a knowing smile. Sherlock gestured back to the file at the desk next to the laptop. "One dead body, the Met thinks he was murdered.  The body had nipple clamps on, screwed on tight enough to draw blood."

John had already reached for his bag, pulled out a flash drive, seated it, then powered the computer back on, booting it up in safe mode. The disk whirred a bit, made some interesting mechanical noises. "This might work, if we're lucky."

"Do you get _lucky_ often?" he asked, a bit of a snarky, harsh edge to his voice. "I thought I was paying for a skilled professional."

The screen flashed a start-up code, command prompts slowly being revealed on the heels of the blinking cursor. "Lucky?" John asked with the same sarcastic tone. "That's a bit personal, don't you think, Mr. Holmes?"

A harsh puff of distaste at the formal address, "Sherlock," he said dismissively.  "And if this is going to be a while, you can certainly pull out your review work for your surgical residency finals." John lifted his head in surprise, met Sherlock's eyes, silently questioning. "Oh, please, your bag has one of the review books on the top of it, and I recognise the name badge from Barts with your credentials visible." Sherlock let the arrogant grin sink in to John's curious look. "But it won't matter much anyway, since you're shortly headed into the military, army presumably, and your class rank will matter much less than the captaincy that you're assured of when you enlist."

"How did you...?" John began, and then the computer issued two loud, warning tones and the screen flickered to blue again. "Oops."  Sherlock glared at John's word choice, but at least did not complain about it.  John removed the USB drive, pocketed it, and inserted the CD into the drive instead. "Have to try this next, unfortunately."

"Simple." Sherlock was already in answer mode as to his deductions. "Your shoes are at least four years old, worn, your watch is dated, and you have a friend cut your hair to save barbering expense.  Used briefcase ... " He let the rest fade off with a flutter of the fingers.  "So, the only way you could afford Barts is through the military, and after your finals you'll owe them four years active duty as a surgeon. Captain is the obligatory rank you'll be inducted with, but you could probably make major or even lieutenant colonel if you choose to stay in beyond the four years." Sherlock looked back at the computer as the machine made some annoying noises as it tried to read the disk in the drive. "You're wasting your time in tech support, this will never..."

John turned to stare the man down as he gritted his teeth, cutting short the negativity, "Piss off."

Sherlock took a breath of amusement, "Do your employers know you speak rudely to your customers?"  If John didn't know any better, he would also assume Sherlock was somewhat impressed, as well. Or at least entertained. 

"I don't; I'm usually the picture of politeness. You seem to provoke..."  Leaving the sentence unfinished, John stared at him for the few seconds it took to communicate his displeasure, then changed tactics.  "Typically, customers are grateful for the prompt service and most people keep their bloody opinions to themselves."

John turned his attention back to the laptop.  The screen went through the start-up scripts again, this time hanging a bit at the final prompt, and John heard Sherlock huff impatiently. "Perhaps I should just replace the computer, if this is going to be much longer."

"Not sure, this may take a bit."

"Are you _sure_ you're any good?"

John looked up, raising only his eyes to meet the scathing glare of the man who had not only called the company for assistance, but had agreed to pay extra for the expedited, last minute service call. "I'm one of the best."

"That's a ridiculous statement because the majority of your peer technicians are _also_ idiots."  His chin went out a bit as he looked stubbornly at John.  "So the comparison may be accurate, but the bar is set entirely too low, and a trained monkey ..."

"I am good," John began, interrupting.  He did not wish to hear an inaccurate insult, although, he had met a few of the other techs, been trained by a few of them, and unfortunately, some of them were not much at solving problems - which confirmed that what Sherlock was saying was correct, but John wasn't going to affirm the sentiment.  He continued, then, "Good at bailing people out from their foolish on-line choices."

Sherlock ignored the jibe.  "What else are you _good_ at?" There was the flare of Sherlock's blue eyes as he looked back, flirting, the edges of his eyes crinkling as the smile turned charming. John took in, intentionally and deliberately, how the man looked from curly chestnut curls to trim but toned shoulders, slim waist, bespoke trousers, muscled thighs, expensive Italian leather shoes. He grinned a bit in approval, and would almost swear he saw Sherlock's chest puff out slightly in pleasure.

"You name it, I'll let you know."  John had been so busy lately, with school and just basic survival, that taking time for actual flirting or cultivating any relationship interests had taken a back seat.  And he realised, his eyes sparkling at Sherlock's, he had missed it.  Harmless, casual flirting.

"Blow job?"  The question was delivered rather matter of factly for such a cheeky topic.

"Blow job."  Yes, the echo will buy him a few moments. "I'll have to check the company price list, I'm pretty sure that's not one of your options today. If you made special arrangements for that service, my scheduler neglected to pass that along."  John didn't give him the satisfaction of looking uncomfortable as he watched the computer for signs of restoration.  Or resurrection.

"Maybe next service call, then. But only if you're any good."

"No complaints so far." He bluffed as if he had any experience in that area.  He had yet to be in a relationship with another bloke, but knew he was bisexual, had known before entering uni.  John was not particularly rattled at Sherlock's assumption. Flattered, perhaps. He squelched that, hit enter on the computer to keep the process moving along.

"I think the no complaints is probably because you've never..."  He let the sentence trail off as something in the photo must've caught his eye, and he cocked his head to the side as he studied it again.  "How about crime scene analysis?"

"What?"

"Do keep up, John. Are you any _good_ at crime scene analysis?" Sherlock handed over a few views of large black and white photos of the dead male, grainy and somewhat difficult to see details.  The man in the photo was completely naked, and did, as Sherlock had already mentioned, have nipple clamps, chained together, and a bit of blood trickling down from each side. One hand was visible on the corpse's ribs. The scene from a distance showed clothing, a jacket, shoes, over an industrial grade carpeting.  "See anything?"

"He has COPD," John said, pointing. "Had," he corrected.

"COPD. Lung disease?"

John nodded. "Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease."

"Explain."

The computer came to the desktop then, and John's attention was diverted. He removed the disk and started a scan running, safely, to detect the presence of viruses, malware, or other system malfunctions. There was still more noise than there should be. "Sounds like you might have a loose component. And I'm not convinced this isn't overheating. Do you often work on a soft surface?"

"Some. My lap, often." A feisty grin showed up then, and he added with a mischievous smile, "Not always _soft_."

John felt colour infuse his face as he tried to ignore the charged comment. "Should watch that, the fan can't keep the motherboard cool enough if the air can't circulate. Although we'll see what the scan shows. It brings up error messages and boot records." John adjusted the laptop screen angle, then pointed to the photo. "This man was barrel chested, clubbing of the fingers. Hallmark signs of lung disease, chronic hypoxia." He brought the photo closer to his face, studying. "Might even be an inhaler in that jacket pocket, see the shape right there?" he asked, pointing to the area. Sherlock wasn't looking at the photo, he was watching John.

"What else?"

"You need antivirus software, for sure. There is none on this machine at all. Especially if you're going to visit websites that can be potentially dangerous.  And if you are prone to click on links and open files that you should be wary of." Sherlock's expression implied that he didn't particularly care, tapped his finger to the photo John was still holding instead, looking for more information.  John shrugged, put the photo down again. "The nipple clamp victim died sitting up, or at least was bleeding while sitting, some of the blood drips run toward his waist and not toward his back."

John glanced up from the monitor in time to see Sherlock cock his head slightly, lips pursed and a slightly impressed expression as he looked back at John. "There are better photos on the computer, if you can get to them."

"This scan is going to take a few minutes, actually." John poked around at the toolbar across the bottom. "You have a lot of applications open, here, just going to close a few..." and as he said that the auto-play feature began mid song, where it had left off. Classical violins sounded through the speakers, and John listened a few seconds, and then paused it.  "Classical symphony orchestra?  Wouldn't have been my first guess for you."  

"Oh, what would you have guessed?"

"Top 40.  Maybe, something more current.  Eclectic, little known artists, perhaps.  Wouldn't take you for a string enthusiast."  With a decidedly pleased smirk on his face, Sherlock's gaze flicked intentionally across the room, and John, curious, glanced over, too.  There was a violin case tucked away into a bookshelf.  "Oh, my mistake."  Turning back to the computer, John smiled self-deprecatingly and then closed the folder along with a few other open windows. "It'll run faster now, a bit anyway." Relaxed then for a moment, John leaned back, both arms behind his head, legs stretched out in front of him crossed at the ankles. "So, yeah, a cup of tea would be great, thanks."

A mischievous grin appeared back at him, and Sherlock seemed particularly to be studying him as he said, "Kettle's in the kitchen," and he nodded his head in that direction. John stared back, feeling his own hackles rise at the challenge.

"Guess I could add a self-service fee for having to get my own, I'll add it to the cheque."

"My water and my tea.  Guess you should've brought your own." Sherlock smiled at him then, blue eyes sparkling as he looked at John with appreciation. "How badly do you want it?" Clearly he was pressing John for a reaction, daring him to action, speaking metaphorically about much more than tea with both tone and body language.

"You do realise I could claim this computer isn't fixable. It might be to your benefit to humour me just a tad."

"I don't typically humour anyone. If anything, I tend to aggravate most people."

"Hmm, hard to believe, that," John muttered as he clicked off another scan running as the first one finished. He debated quickly as to the wisdom of actually fixing his own cup of tea, decided his need for the beverage outweighed the desire to have it fixed for him. The kitchen was slightly disturbing, what with the various ... substances and questionable goings-on cluttering the hob and creeping with sinister intent into the sink. The kettle however, seemed safe enough, and John located a clean mug in one of the cabinets. Briefly considering acting like a jerk, he added another mug, and shortly returned to the sitting room with two steaming mugs, both fixed as John preferred it, with just a small amount of sugar. Wordlessly, he set it down, jostled the mouse to wake up the screen again, then sat back to monitor the progress.

"Your kitchen is frightening.  And I don't frighten all that readily."

"Be glad you didn't open the refrigerator, then."  John stared at him, puzzled.  "Body parts."  

John sipped, blowing steam to cool things off.  "Yeah?  Anything interesting?"

Sherlock lifted his eyes to John's, the sparkle in his eyes and slight raise of the eyebrow enough to answer affirmatively.  He watched John intently.  "That's not what people usually say."

John turned his attention to the laptop as Sherlock sipped the tea, looking again at the photos. "Any idea as to cause of death?"

"Not really. Asthma exacerbation? Who found him, and where?" John set the tea down, looking back at the photos. "Kind of looks like a hotel room."

"Speculation is that it was a paid sexual encounter."

"You're not sure."

"What concerns me is that the Met came up with probably the correct situation, so of course I'm suspicious." He consulted his watch. "Hoping to see the actual scene before it all gets cleaned up."

"This just happened then?" Sherlock nodded, and John attended the laptop again, clicking another scan to run as he saw a few viruses already isolated and quarantined. "You've got some problems here, this might work, but the last time I saw this much malware, I had to reformat and rebuild."

"Just do that, then. It'd be quicker?"

"Well, of course, but do you have a back up of any of your files?"

"Back up?"

John was rendered momentarily speechless, then, and he wondered, for such an apparently bright man, that he could be so technologically clueless. He was spared from having to present a dissertation on the wisdom of backing up computer files when Sherlock's mobile rang. The side of the conversation he could hear was short and to the point, and Sherlock was already on his feet, reaching for his coat as he hung up, almost vibrating with energy.

There were no discussions of additional computer needs, follow up, and all Sherlock said as he left was, "Lock up when you're done!"  And he was gone.

John didn't even bother answering, as the doorway was empty and he knew the computer-idiot wasn't present to listen anyway. John waited uncomfortably by himself in the flat, puzzled at the abruptness of the bizarre client's departure. When the current scan was finished, John ran one final clean and defrag program, and the laptop tested functional, surprisingly. He poked around just long enough to find a rather unusual browser history, one that yielded apparently a blog that Sherlock kept on the composition of tobacco ash, and a few other sites that seemed in keeping with criminal investigations. And one on male exotic dancing.

He left the invoice on the desk, added a note that he needed antivirus software and should consider a backup service. He left his initials, JW, on the cheque. Checking the time on his way out the door, he could only sigh. This had taken longer than expected, was somewhat unsatisfying for reasons John opted not to really delve into, and he had studying to do. It was going to be a long night.

++

The exam at the end of the week went rather well, John thought, and he reached for his mobile from his jacket pocket as he left the building. While he was fatigued from the late hours he'd invested studying and some mental exhaustion from the rigors of the test, he was anticipating a free, stress-less evening. There was a message from the tech support office, so he listened to that as he walked. They'd had a rather emphatic call from one existing customer named Sherlock Holmes, insisting he was having computer problems again, that John's service call had been less than effective, and he was demanding a follow-up and insisting that it be no one but John. He was not scheduled to work this evening, thought about blowing it off, going home, relaxing or studying. And then it occurred to him that there was only a few quid remaining for food for the week and that he probably should take the work while he could get it.  He called the office back, said he would take care of it.

The mobile sounded a text alert as John was just getting to his shared housing to retrieve his work bag.

**Come at once. If inconvenient, come anyway. SH**

A few minutes later, another came through. **There is another blue screen. SH**

And then, **I will provide dinner as incentive. SH**

John did not open the texts, leaving Sherlock to guess as to whether or not he'd read it.

**Italian or Indian? SH**

John smirked, decided to respond. **Who is this?**

**Do keep up, John.  Your number was easily discoverable.  Italian or Indian?  SH**

**Actually my heritage is mostly Scottish.**

**Hilarious you are not. SH**

**I kind of thought it was funny.**

The ellipsis flared briefly, then **Fish and chips for dinner, then? SH**

**I suppose, although I like Italian and Indian as well. See you in thirty.**

John arrived unfortunately five minutes after the rain started, and Sherlock opened the door to find him stomping and trying to shake off the outermost drenching he'd brought into the stairwell with him.

"Some people find an umbrella a functional London necessity." Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, and John looked up, eyebrow raised.

"Oh, I'm sorry, you must be speaking to someone else, because no one with any sense would be so sarcastic to someone here to bloody help them."

"I can be sarcastic if I choose. I'm paying for your services."

John stared, speech eluding him for the few minutes he stood there shocked. "Does your mother know how rude you are?"

"Of course. Many a butler and housekeeper found reason to seek employment elsewhere, and mummy was always fussing about it." Sherlock moved from the door, holding it open in invitation as John ascended the stairs.

"Butler, housekeeper. Of course."  John opted to keep the words 'spoiled rotten' from crossing his lips.

"Turnover went down when they sent me off to school."

John entered the flat, removed his coat, laughing a bit at Sherlock's statement. "Bet it went up at the unfortunate school you went to."

A charming grin appeared then, reaching bright blue eyes in amusement. "It did, at that." John, feeling every bit wet and bedraggled, considered himself rather the pauper standing next to the prince, who was polished and appealing.  And _dry_.  He informed John that he'd ordered takeaway, that delivery was going to be another half hour, maybe longer in the rain. "Gives you time to get started."

"What seems to be the trouble now?"

"Seem to have found that blue screen again."

"Let me guess, research, for a case. Clicked on a link perhaps?"

Sherlock didn't answer, his lips pressed together in defiance.

"What are you researching this time?"

Sherlock barely kept the twinkle out of his eye as he replied, "Guess you wouldn't believe the prevalence of social diseases in London?"

"Of course I believe you."  John couldn't help shaking his head sadly, just a little.  "Still no antivirus software, then."

"You can install that, then?"

"If we can get you back up and running." John toed off his wet shoes at the door, kicked them aside to the baseboard moulding. "Repeat infections can be trickier."

"I hear that about STDs too."

"You can't get STDs just by visiting questionable websites."  Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that.  "Well," John amended, "not from the computer itself anyway."

"But they are harder to treat?"

John gave him a bizarre look, wondering at the line of questioning. "Are you having... unusual symptoms or something?"

Sherlock seemed puzzled himself, then laughed. "No.  God, no. I'm doing research. They found that the victim had metronidazole," Sherlock read the word from the paper in front of him, drawing each syllable out distinctly, "in his pocket, along with the inhaler, and the pathologist mentioned testing for an STD." He watched as John attempted to power up the computer.

"Metronidazole is used to treat H Pylori related stomach ulcers.  A few other things.  Certain GI distress.  Or parasites.  Had he traveled recently?"  John booted up the computer to safe mode, or attempted to, unsuccessfully this time from the USB drive.  They both watched as the laptop went through the start up script and then hung on one of the command prompts.

"I have no idea."

"How was the crime scene?"

"Tedious.  Too many people had already been mucking around in it.  Cataloging evidence and moving things around.  No fresh clues."

The laptop scrolled a few screens in, flashed, and then opened to a screen full of random symbols, letters, all jumbled together.  "Not good news, mate."

John tried a few keystrokes, shortcuts that would allow him to see what processes were running, and it worked briefly, long enough for John to close down some of the open windows and then check into his browser history.

"Researching military obligations for physicians, I see."  John did not try to mask his grin at Sherlock's boldly confident expression.  He certainly, John acknowledged, had plenty of nerve.

"I need a flatmate.  Wanted to see how long you were going to be gone."  Sherlock looked steadily back at him.  "I can't understate how important it is, apparently, that I have tech support immediately available."

"In exchange for what?"

"That might be open to suggestion.  Have you made up your mind yet about your _preferences?_ "  There was a pause as their eyes met, and John wondered again how Sherlock managed to figure things out without asking.

"I don't see that my preferences are really any of your business."

"They could be.  And rather satisfying, at that.  You might find you like it."

John's fingers froze over the keyboard, then, hearing pure flirting in their banter.   _Decision time, Watson_ , he thought to himself.  "What are you offering?"

"Well, do you prefer crime scene analysis by photo or on the computer screen, of course."  Sherlock was playing him, and playing him well, John thought, feeling his heart pounding, hidden underneath his button up shirt.

"Of course."  John's fingers unfroze, his breathing returned to near normal, and he watched the monitor for a few moments as he swallowed and got his head back in the game.  "So other than the pills, what else turned up about the dead man?"

"The crime scene, like I said, was boring.  Just his clothing, a weekend suitcase, routine stuff, all properly contained in a musty hotel room."

"Musty, you say?"  John started a scan running, then, shrugged with a glimmer of hope that perhaps it would be effective.  "Ground floor?"

Sherlock's eyebrow raised curiously, and his head tilted, John saw, realised it was a statement of intrigue.  "Yes.  Why?"

"Did he have that inhaler on him?  In his jacket pocket, remember?"  John shuffled through the pile of pictures to the photo he'd looked at last time, pointed.

"It was."

"Mould reaction.  Allergic perhaps.  Or he might have suffered bronchospasm from reactive airway, then." John powered on the laptop. "Was it albuterol?"

"It might have..." He scanned the notes briefly, "Yes, it was."  Sherlock turned intense eyes on him. "Explain."

"Albuterol is a rescue inhaler.  Someone with reactive airway, especially a severe one, will be careful to keep it with them at all times, in case they encounter something that triggers an attack."  John had Sherlock's attention, and tried not to be terribly flattered by it, although he knew Sherlock wanted information above all.  "Something like mould. Seen a few patients with very severe respiratory distress, sensitive to things like mould. Perfumes, candles, flowers, that sort of thing." John forced himself to sit still under Sherlock's scrutiny, felt a slight flush creeping up his collar. The man was magnetic, charismatic in the sense that a chemical reaction was brewing. "Hotels can be a real hot plate for it, especially in very damp weather."

"Black mould then?"

"Probably. Ground floor, wallpapered room most likely?"

"Yes."

"Might want to check behind it."  John cocked his head a bit, considering what he'd said.  "Might want to _get permission_ before you check behind it."

Sherlock's answering and slightly dismissive snicker was interrupted by the arrival of a loud car out front that screeched to a halt, then an impatient ring of the doorbell.  "Fish and chips are here.  As promised."

Over dinner, a working dinner, John learned about Sherlock's consulting skills to the local police.  Sherlock admitted that he himself had no tolerance for stupidity, hated the mundane, and that he had been highly useful in solving crimes.

"So, if you're that good, why weren't you at this crime scene from the get-go?"  John took another chip, ate, as he looked to Sherlock, who was not exactly eating.  Picking, more like it.

"Because the DI is a control freak, doesn't like sharing details right away.  And," he said, his lip almost in a pout, "he is looking to get all the credit."

John could see right through Sherlock's complaint, protesting too much, and knew that there must have been much more to it, as he recognised the lie.  "Not exactly the truth."

"No, really.  He hates that I'm better than him, can see things..." his voice trailed off as he identified the grin on John's face as disbelieving.  Sherlock's lips tightened as John watched, and John kept his gaze steady on Sherlock's obvious discomfort and waited.   A large sigh came out then as Sherlock hunched down, defeated.  "I sort of compromised the integrity of a scene." He was clearly still sort of upset about it. "Only once!  It was a long time ago, it just sort of ... _happened_.  It was one mistake, and I had already managed to solve the crime.  The Met bumbles through things all the time, incompetent idiots.  I see critical elements that they miss, all the time."  Those high cheekbones were suffused pink, and John couldn't decide if it was excitement or embarrassment over the incident.

"So what happened?"

"Inadmissible evidence."

"So _following procedures_ , not really your area then."

"Procedures are tedious."

John's mind flicked quickly through what the rest of his life was like, finding it procedural on almost every facet - school, classes, medicine in general, surgery specifically. And the military would be synonymous with strict protocol and rigid procedures.  He couldn't help the slight smirk, was very aware that Sherlock noticed it, and he turned back to the computer.  "Procedures, even tedious ones, can be a good thing, you know."  There was another sigh followed by a bit of eye-rolling.  "Well, I hope if you ever need surgery that someone has followed proper protocols.  Cuts down on surgical site infections.  Or that the kitchen in your choice of take-out has followed directions for cooking food safely."  John punctuated his sentence with a chip.  "Wouldn't want to get food poisoning.  Or when you..."

"Enough.  I get it.  And eventually the Met will need me immediately again. On scene, on a _fresh_ scene."  Clearly, he was still feeling the sting of not being permitted access.  "And eventually, you'll manage to fix my computer."

"If you stop clicking on dangerous links and visiting disreputable websites, maybe."

"Research.  Necessary."

"Foolish and impulsive."  John paused.  "Inadvisable."

" _Tedious_."

His plate empty, John wiped his mouth, finished, moved back solely to the computer.  "So, if this last scan comes through clean, are you interested in having me install antivirus software?"  Sherlock just sat, quietly, pale eyes taking in John, the computer, studying without moving.  John's skin flushed slightly under the scrutiny.  "And you should get set up on a back-up program of some sort."

"Once that is taken care of, my computer will be completely safe?"

John snickered.  "How have you stayed out of trouble on the computer up until now?"  He closed out the last scan, which was indeed - and surprisingly - clean.  He paused with his fingers over the keyboard.  "May I?" and when Sherlock nodded, he opened a few things, then, starting with Sherlock's email.  "See, this email?  Typos in the subject line, those odd characters?"  When Sherlock nodded, John continued, "Suspicious.  And here, see this one, marked important, please read and forward, see?  Never do that.  Even if it's supposedly from someone you know, it's not smart, don't open it."  John scrolled down looking for something else to show him, opened his browser history.  "And here, you were searching for ...  Wait, what?"  John pulled the laptop toward him to see the screen better, brows furrowed, eyes wide as he stared at his own name in a financial document.  "What is this?"

"Oops," Sherlock breathed, then decided this might not be a bad disclosure as John read the screen with unblinking eyes.  Sherlock reached out a hand, simultaneously pressed two keys, ALT / F4, and the screen went immediately dark.  John looked over to see Sherlock's nervous smile, and he stared into pale eyes that watched him smugly in return. "I might have fixed your loans, changed it to inactive status and taken the balance to zero, in case they noticed."

"You hacked into a financial institution?"

Shrug.

"It's rather illegal.  And I _owe_ that money, you can't do that."

"It would spare you having to join the army."

"They'll figure it out, catch me."

"Doubtful."

"Not your choice."

"Freedom, John."

"Right.  Right up until they catch me."  He was incredulous but calm, dangerously resolute.  "I don't even have my medical licence yet, and I am already now in danger of _losing it thanks to you_?"  His voice raised a bit then, until he caught himself, stared back at Sherlock with deadly intent.  "Don't think for a moment that I won't take you down with me."

"My brother holds a rather powerful and connected governmental position.  Nothing will happen to either of us."

"Apparently he couldn't restore things immediately with the Met for you, though, hmm?"

"He likes to make things difficult for me."  Sherlock realised his circular argument.  "Sometimes.  And he would have nothing against you."

"Not comforting."  John frowned.  "You shouldn't meddle in other peoples business."

Sherlock shrugged, hoping he was looking as casual as he was hoping to convey.  "You could get hurt on deployment.  It's not safe."

"You could get hurt in a hotel room across London, too."  John angled his head, shrugging at the stack of photos, leaned in.  "Listen, don't do me any favours."

"Maybe I want you for live-in tech support.  I explained that already."

John glared, first at Sherlock and then at the computer he was still monitoring.  He hoped his silence conveyed his displeasure.

Sherlock sensed the opportunity for a bit of distraction.  "Why not?"  Sherlock rose, stood, a long arm sweeping the room.  "I need a flatmate.  You need a better place, closer to Barts, nicer neighbourhood."

"What do you know about my neighbourhood?"

"Enough to know you can't afford a nice one."  Truth being that Sherlock knew exactly where John lived, and that there was an unacceptably high rate of violent crime there, but he kept that to himself.

"Wanker."

"It's the truth."

"You just want me closer to the computer that you keep compromising."

"That, too."  He grinned, suppressed it after a bit.  "But, it doesn't make sense to share a flat if you're only going to leave again in a few months."

 _"Sherlock_."

Sherlock considered the laptop still in sleep mode again, as they both stood there in the room, newly uncertain as to how to proceed.  Changing the subject, then, seemed an appropriate strategy when John seemed ready to leave.  "Antivirus software."

"Stay out of my affairs."

"Not promising anything."

Holding eye contact, John held his ground, body language a bit confrontational, and finally Sherlock looked away, searching for his pack of cigarettes.  He spied them on the mantel, crossed the room, but he had barely picked them up when John growled, "Absolutely not."

Sherlock stared him in the eye, removed a cigarette from the pack, stuck it defiantly between his lips - and John was on his feet in an instant, and a few strides put him right in Sherlock's face.  Despite being somewhat shorter, he made up for the height difference with broad-shouldered attitude as he snatched the cigarette from Sherlock's lips, crushing it in his closed fist.  Sherlock's reflexes were nearly as fast, and he grabbed John's wrist in his long fingers.  They stood, then, breathing each other's air, eyes meeting, temperatures rising at their close proximity and the hand grasps between them.  Even as their gazes stayed locked, John reached out with his other hand, batted the rest of the cigarette pack out of Sherlock's other hand.  Then, hoping it was casual, he let the crumpled cigarette fall from his other hand as they stood, Sherlock's hand still clamped around John's forearm.

They stared for long moments, until Sherlock deliberately and intentionally looked away from John's dark eyes - but not in defeat.  His pale, intense eyes flicked to John's mouth, slightly parted, lips dry, soft, a pleasant expression as they stood.  John let the smile grow, then, at Sherlock's line of vision and what it implied.  He hesitated only long enough to be sure that this, his first foray with another male body in his grip, was definitely something he'd been wanting a long time, had waited for some reason until right _now_.  His free hand reached out slowly, surely, to Sherlock's neck, and he pulled them toward each other, one angling up, one leaning slightly down, John easing just slightly onto his toes as Sherlock bent his knees.  Their mouths came together, the decision gathering speed as their bodies got involved.  Shortly, John's head tilted slightly and he felt Sherlock's tongue seeking, jaw opening as their mouths slotted together with increasing pressure.

"Are you sure?" Sherlock said, pulling back just enough to get the words out.

In answer, John wrestled his wrist out of Sherlock's hold, used both of his now free arms to pull Sherlock's body against his own, muscled chests meeting from ribs to waist, lower.  A low groan came out of Sherlock's throat as he tipped his head back to give John access to his neck.  Only a step or two from the wall, John nudged with his head above Sherlock's collarbone, a hand reaching behind as they came in easily and gently up against the wall.  John pressed against Sherlock more fully, with Sherlock's legs spread slightly in order to bring their heights to more equal levels.  His own hardness pressed against Sherlock's belly, felt an answering throb through several layers of clothing.  It was accented then, fully thick and hard as Sherlock pressed rolling hips against John, drawing emphatic pursed-lipped breaths from them both.

John's hands framed Sherlock's head then, mouth hot and wet and seeking.  "This, _you_  ...feel amazing," he breathed, a hand sliding down over pectoral muscle, firmly admiring the contour and flicking the peaked nipple through the shirt fabric.  He let his fingers wander toward the buttons, released a few, then trailed his mouth down over the skin.  A few wisps of hair tickled his face, and he eased back as his hand wandered lower, pressing against Sherlock as he pressed into John's palm.  

 _"God, John_ ," came the quiet whisper, and then the rhythm took over, Sherlock's pelvis, John's hand, meeting and stroking and thrusting, until Sherlock groaned loudly, his head thrown back against the wall, shoulders and belly shuddering as he released, breathing stuttering and hitching.  The deep rumble in his throat was not any word in any language, but conveyed a deep satisfaction, appreciation, fulfillment, and contentment.  Sherlock breathed deep, once, twice, then reached out for John's belt only to find John pulling back slightly.

"What...?" Sherlock asked, the furrow between his brows. 

John sighed, pressed his lips against Sherlock's clavicle again, pulled back reluctantly.  One of John's hands rested on Sherlock's chest, the other in silky dark curls, and he watched his own fingers as the curls wrapped around them, and he slid his hand out, unhurried and relaxed, at least on the outside.  "I should be getting finished here, and take off.  Studying and whatnot."

"But you didn't let me..."

"I know, it's just...  Next time maybe?"

Sherlock's eye narrowed in displeasure.  "Think of me later when you take care of that at home," his eyes flicked lower, his tone closed and minimally annoyed.  "You'll come back to finish what you started?"  Their eye connection left no doubt that the computer was only part of what they were currently discussing.

"Next week."  John woke up Sherlock's laptop one final time, seemed satisfied when it came to the desktop immediately.  "Should probably call the office to set it up properly."

"Of course.  Because I really care about following proper channels."

John tried hard not to smirk at that, really, but held it in only a few seconds before laughing.  "That way I'll get paid."

Sherlock grinned a bit at that, then pulled with distaste at his trousers, making a grimace at what couldn't have been comfortable as things got cooler against his skin.  "I offered to pay you."  His eyebrows waggled at John's groin, and John shook his head, smiling.

"And you fed me dinner.  Appreciate it."  John found his jacket, repacked his bag, then hesitated at the door.  "Don't visit any suspicious websites until I get that antivirus installed.  Really."  Sherlock shrugged indifferently.  "And please restore my loan information that you had no business getting into in the first place."

Sherlock pursed his lips, considering how much integrity John Watson had and wondering if that was going to be a problem.  He decided it was.  And he decided it would be a really bad time to mention that Sherlock had already hacked into the Army recruitment paperwork that John had filled out and changed a few questions that would guarantee he would most assuredly not even be considered for deployment.  If he made it past the first round of interviews, Sherlock had also guaranteed that John would fail the entrance physical.  It would not be a good time to mention that, at all.  Maybe ever.  "I'm not sure I can get into the loan account again.  It was kind of an accident," he lied, trying to sound bored with the whole topic.  "You'll be hearing from me."

John glanced over sharply, wondering about the wisdom of additional contact.

Sherlock was already smirking, shaking his head.  "About the antivirus and backup installs.  Do keep up, John."

John was barely out on the kerb, jacket zipped, bag slung over his shoulder, everything still slightly damp and misty, when his mobile buzzed.

**So how severe is your gender identity crisis going to be tonight? SH**

**Wasn't planning on one until you mentioned it.**  

**Liar. SH**

It was only one word, but John could well imagine the bright blue eyes and slightly raised eyebrow that accompanied the sarcastic, and probably true, text.  Later, lying in his bed, alone, his small flat quiet and boring, he was able - finally - to acknowledge that he knew this day was coming.  The interest he'd suppressed for so long, he said to himself with a satisfying realisation that he was no longer hiding anything.  It felt good, finally, this interest in a tall, lanky, brilliant man with frightening ignorance in the street smarts of computer manouevering.

He thought about a text later, after he had, as Sherlock had predicted, taken himself in hand.  The text landed, eventually after a few edits, on   **I'm over it.  Schedule the appointment for whenever you want, but I will see you Sunday night, and I will be bringing _protection_.  **

**Computer or personal? SH**

**Both.**

**Sunday is fine.  SH**

++

John's medical rotation the following day was mostly routine except for one conversation he happened to overhear between Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist, and the director of the Residency Rotation.  More of an argument, with both participants frustrated over the disappearance of some renal and hepatic tissue that was supposed to be studied following surgical resection a few days previously.  Dr. Hooper's voice was quietly stern as she explained, more than once, that she had no idea how her tissue samples kept disappearing because it had been days since Sherlock Holmes had visited her and then distracted her so he could abscond with more of her specimens.  The director could only shake his head and respond that perhaps they should hire additional security if a civilian could illegally obtain such things from a presumably locked department.

Now that he considered it, this was not the first conversation John had overheard that mentioned Sherlock's name.  That must have been why Sherlock's name had sounded familiar, mentioned in frustration by Dr. Hooper.  As chief surgical resident, he had been in the pathology department many times, had struck up a working relationship with her.  She was a good teacher, but agreeable and accommodating to a fault, and apparently Sherlock had discovered a soft underbelly of means to obtain specimens and somehow remove them from the premises.  John wondered about what, exactly, Sherlock had smuggled to his flat on Baker Street, and he shuddered.

It made John wish he had - and at the same time, rather glad he _hadn't_ \- opened the refrigerator at Sherlock's flat.

He thought for a few minutes, composed a text to Sherlock.   **Dr Hooper is on to you, you should probably lay low a few days.**

**I have no idea what you're talking about. SH**

**Of course.  I should also tell you that Dr. Hooper isn't the only one who is on to you.**

**Oh? Do tell. SH**

**If you're going to play computer naive, you shouldn't use keyboard shortcuts to minimise your screen.**

**I was hoping you failed to notice that. SH**

++

John had one more final exam, the last one of this med school season of his career, and ended his weekend shift running later than he'd intended.  He texted Sherlock as he was leaving Barts that he would be arriving shortly.

The flat was silent as John ascended the stairs, and when he knocked, there was no answer or signs of life within.  The door, he found, was unlocked, and he entered to find only one corner lamp on, welcoming although a dim glow from the corner of the room, and the laptop angled toward the door, beckoning.  The screen was active - which John thought odd, if the flat was empty - the blue screen facing the door.  He hesitated, bag heavy in his hand, hackles up, radar alerted as he sensed something amiss.  Attempting to be quiet, he eased the door shut behind him, eyes forward on the LED glow of the screen.  It was not out of the ordinary, John realised, that he was arriving at Sherlock's flat to find a blue screen.  He was three for three now.

"I know you're here."  John spoke, his voice reverberating in the flat.  "Clearly, this is ..." and his words cut off as he was grabbed from behind, warm hands encircling his waist, pinning his arms.  "Oh, come on.   _Predictable_ , Sherlock."

A mouth opened warm and wet on his neck, and he could sense, feel, and hear the deep breath of appreciation as he was sniffed, Sherlock's face pressed up against the hollow of his neck, inhaling, and firmly pulled back against the solid body behind him.  "That was intended to be predictable."  John could hear the words through the smile, knew there was more than the obvious.  He turned in Sherlock's arms, then, mouth seeking quickly, hot and wet, with wandering hands sliding into curls with equal intensity and then down to grip arse, the curve behind his thigh.  "This, however," Sherlock said, an arm moving quickly, and John felt warm metal pressed into his hand, "probably not quite as predictable."

John brought his hand up, feeling the shape of a key loosely in his hand.  "I never agreed to move in."

"But you're going to.  Stop fighting it."

"No.   _God_ , you're pushy."  John set the key down on the nearest corner of the end table he could reach. 

"Be grateful, it could have been nipple clamps I put in your hand."

John chuckled, then.  "Good call on holding back, then."

"They're in the bedroom, in case you..."

Laughing again, John pulled back slightly to seek Sherlock's eyes in the dim light.  "Wait, you are kidding...?"  He let the bag slide to the floor, pushed back enough to wriggle out of his jacket.  "Never mind, I find it doesn't really matter."

"But you do have something in mind.  For tonight."

"Antivirus software.  Back up program.  Yes."

"That's for later."

"Later, why?"

"Because if that's all you're wondering about, I'm afraid you're going to muck up my computer because you're nervous.  Or too distracted."  John thought about fussing about his comment, because he'd become accustomed to multi-tasking, but considered that he did have a point.

"Okay."  Sherlock seemed almost surprised - or was that disappointed, John wondered - when it was agreement and not additional banter between them.  "But I'll pass on the nipple clamps."

"We can save that for when you move in."

"You do realise I'm committed to the army.  I signed an application form.  I've been in touch with a recruiter."

"Then I have work to do to get you to change your mind."

"They are expecting me."  Shrugging, John continued, "I want to.  My grandfather served."

Sherlock was still close, their bodies barely brushing against each other.  "What else do you want?"  His question was posed in low tones, eyes glittering.

"What are you offering?"  They shared a smile at the recycled question.  With more boldness than he felt, John gestured down the hall.  "Never mind, we'll figure it out as we go.  Bedroom's...?"

Sherlock nodded, admiring the compact strength and near strut of John's bravado as he followed him.

For all the clutter in the rest of the flat, the bedroom was sparse, but with warm-toned bed linens and drapes.  Both of them, the nervous excitement of what they wanted, were seeking, built and crescendo-ed once they were in the room.  Sherlock reached for the lamp by the bed and then moved his long fingers to his own shirt buttons.

John stilled his hands by placing them over Sherlock's pale ones over his sternum.  "Can I?" he asked, and Sherlock lowered his hands, watching John and expecting him to set the pace.  He found it oddly amusing, knowing without a doubt he'd never undressed another man in this fashion, and was forging ahead daringly.

John let his fingers brush against Sherlock's chest as he opened the shirt, letting it fall.   _Cor_ , the man in front of him was thin, John realised.  His strong clinician hands slid down ribs, palpating and letting his thumbs brush over nipples with sparse hairs in random patterns.  The nipples beaded and peaked with the touch and the cooler air, and John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's face that was sober and expressive, clearly enjoying both the sensation and watching John's reactions to him.  "Sensitive?"

Sherlock let his eyebrows wiggle in answer, drawing his lip between his teeth in anticipation, and John smiled again.  He lowered his mouth to one, then the other, kissing, licking, then gently sucking hard, pulling Sherlock's ribs between strong hands and holding his body steady as he tasted.  John was well aware that he wanted skin on skin, and his hands stumbled over his own shirt buttons, eventually letting it drop behind him.  A shy smile graced his face, then, as he moved to Sherlock's belt.  "Okay?" he asked.

"Kind of hard to do too much more with them on."  He batted John's hand away, opened the buckle to save John's frustration.  "Although it didn't stop us the other night."

"Messy," John offered slightly apologetically.

"Worth it."  John's hands slid behind Sherlock, brushed down the fabrics from his waist, then waited while Sherlock stepped out, fully naked except for his socks.  "Feet are cold, just warning you," as he toed the socks off.  John stared, then seeing him without clothes, confident and comfortable.  Under John's scrutiny, his erection grew, throbbing and proudly jutting forward.

"Don't care.  They'll warm up eventually."

"Diverted blood flow."

John smiled at that, pulled out a few square packs from his pocket, tossing them on the bed before removing his own trousers.

It got much easier, less anxiety in the room once they were touching again, embracing the journey and the destination, and John followed Sherlock to the bed.  A few heated kisses later, Sherlock reached a hand out to John's nipple.  John sucked in a breath, the briefest giggle that he tried to cover up with a cough.  "Sensitive?" Sherlock parroted his question from earlier.

"No.  You're feet are not the only cold extremities you're sporting.   _Jeez_ , your fingers!"

Sherlock moaned a whine of protest, then pulled the duvet up around them then rolled roughly over John and made quite the case for friction improving both blood flow and demonstrating the benefits of shared body heat.  As temperatures rose, John's mouth found Sherlock's collarbone, nuzzled it, tasting and enjoying.  Finally, his hand reached down, touching firmness, and Sherlock moaned in satisfaction after a short time.  "Don't tease," he whispered.

"I'm not sure.... I don't want to hurt you," John amended, grateful for their positions and that Sherlock was not staring at him with those all-knowing eyes, stripping him bare of any secrets and seeing entirely too much.

"You won't.  Here," Sherlock grabbed one of the condoms, pressed it into John's hand, ripping it open when John took it, then waited while he eased away to roll it into place.  The lube was cool that he then trickled onto John's fingers, and between the both of them, things progressed quite nicely, opening and preparing, until John was above, looking down at Sherlock as he stared back, waiting.  "Go ahead," Sherlock said, nodding, realising that John was gallantly and politely waiting for final permission, and the tentative easing all the way in was exquisitely pleasurable for them both, the stretch and the fill.  John slid a hand down toward Sherlock, until Sherlock shook his head, whispering only, "Don't need to as long as you get the angle."

"What angle?" and he slid a few times, experimenting with depth and rate.

Sherlock recalled how he'd learned by trial and error with his only previous partner, Victor, in uni.  "Trust me.  Aim for prostate, I'll help."  Sherlock brushed his hands down John's lower back, guiding.

And with that, John rolled his hips and Sherlock's final word went up almost an octave, and John grinned with satisfaction.  "There?"

"God, John.  Obvious..." and when John did it again, with uncanny accuracy after a few not quite spot on, unerringly, repetitively brushing against a highly sensitive area, Sherlock lost almost all speech for a few minutes until he was able to warn, "Close."

"Nngh, me too," and there was a sheen of sweat, shallow breathing, and strong hands holding.  There was coiling and tension, and John lost his rhythm briefly as Sherlock cried out, sudden pulsating warmth between them.  The sensations were overwhelming, and John stiffened, cried out, holding position while his body tightened like a spring then released, finding a satisfaction different than any he'd had before.  The connection between them was strong, tight, and when John could catch his breath, he eased away while Sherlock handed him a rumpled tee shirt to clean up with - _his own_ , he noticed too late.  Breath easing underneath a sheen of sweat, pulse rate finally pounding less loudly in his ears, John could feel a warm languor start between his shoulders.  He glanced over to find Sherlock studying him.  There was a small smile, and Sherlock moved so that his head was up into the bed on John's shoulder, with John's arm coming around behind him.  "Your feet are warm now, thank god."

"Ah good, pillow talk."  John could feel Sherlock smile against him.  "There's a second bedroom upstairs."

"Not moving in, Sherlock."

"It's convenient."

"Do you always get your way?"

"Not always.  But I prefer to."  He leaned back to see John's expression.  "And I prefer my doctors clean shaven, so don't be planning on sporting facial hair."

"I'm not a doctor until I pass boards in a few weeks.  And I don't think _you_ have any say in that, you know."

"I think I might."  John was silent.  "Because in another half hour, when we're ready to go again, I have a few other things to show you."

John imagined that the swallow he managed then was actually audible in the room.

"Don't worry," Sherlock said in that low, sexy baritone voice again.  "I think you'll find that, while I may not be as computer literate as you, I do possess a few other advantageous skills." 

++

John's awareness returned gradually, softly turning his head over on the cool side of his pillow.  Or not his pillow.  It was softer than usual, he was dimly aware that the scent was not his typical bargain laundry soap, either.  And there were other scents then, too - sweat and _male_ and sex.  And then John remembered.  Opening one eye, he found the bed he was in definitely not his own, but empty.  Sliding out an arm, he found the other side still very warm.  Vaguely he was aware of the shower running.  He found a dressing gown, noticing that there was not a pullover sweatshirt to be found anywhere, his usual morning garb.  He pulled on his denims underneath, padded on bare feet out to the kitchen.

He fetched his laptop from his pack, then, wanting tea before tackling the blue screened infected computer that, unregrettably, they'd managed to avoid last night.  The shower lingered a while, long enough to make John wonder if hot water was included with his rent.  John decided to check email while sipping his tea, a lovely Earl Grey, with sugar and a small amount of (presumably safe) milk from the refrigerator.  While there were questionable items there, most of what John could see was at least appropriately well-sealed in opaque plastic wrappings.  There were some obviously ill-gotten items in the refrigerator that John opted not to investigate any further, but he did see Dr. Hooper's name and Barts labeling on one item.  When Sherlock stumbled out finally, in pyjama pants riding low on his hips and his dressing gown open and flowing behind as he walked, John had accessed his email, deleted some junk, marked some to be read later, and he was casually scanning for items of interest.  Suddenly, John's hand suspended mid air, tea aloft, and John wearing a mask of disbelief, brow deeply furrowed, a look of concern on his face.

"What is it?" Sherlock queried, hoping John's mood would be somewhat tempered by being nearly half done his first cuppa this morning.

"I just got an email from my recruiter.  They turned me down."

'"What?"

"The London office turned me down, rejected my application, last minute."

"Why would they do that?"  On silent feet, Sherlock stepped into the kitchen, moved to the kettle, his back deliberately facing John and the silence becoming oppressive for a few seconds as John stared at Sherlock, wondering at his reaction.  He hoped that Sherlock could feel his eyes boring holes into the back of his head.

John leaned back, distracted, eyes forward but not really seeing anything for a few moments.  "I'm not sure why I was not approved."  Sherlock was quiet, trying to stay ahead of predicting John's reactions as he poured his own tea, sat down across from him, his chair welcoming and comfortable.  "Paperwork problem, it seems.  Any ideas, Sherlock?"  He spoke slowly, intensely, letting the last syllable of the word clip harshly in the quiet room.  He raised his cup, then let his eyes drift over to stare intently at Sherlock, piercing blue eyes quiet and pensive as they stared back, waited, taking in every nuance.  Sherlock worked hard on keeping his expression neutral, then finally looked away, considering his own cup of steaming liquid.  

If silence was not quite enough of an answer, John could see the pounding pulse of Sherlock's carotid artery from where he sat.

"I should probably just let this topic alone, I'm thinking?"  The cool tones in his voice veiled quite the emotion just under the surface, and both were vividly aware of what John was - and wasn't - saying.

Sherlock set his tea down, then shook the newspaper open, swallowing hard and visibly as John watched him.  "Probably," he agreed.

John exhaled fully, rested his head back, closed his eyes with some degree of resignation.  "Cover your trail well, then, I hope."

Sherlock didn't look over as he skimmed the articles looking for the latest on the crime he'd solved (again) for the Met, the case of the black mould.  "I have no idea what you're talking about."  Had John's eyes been really all the way closed, he would have missed it, but they were open just barely enough to see the very satisfied one-sided smile appear, albeit transiently, on Sherlock's face.  

_Bloody wanker._

++

Epilogue

John arrived home from work, jogging up the steps there at Baker Street.  He had picked up take-away on his short walk there from Barts, where he was working full time in the operating theatre.  He hung his coat, stowed his case, and toed off his shoes before really looking around the cluttered flat.  His laptop was at the table, facing the door - odd - and Sherlock dashed out a quick finger, woke up the mouse.  He hadn't taken his focus away from the microscope and slides to look at John, but something else caught John's eye, exactly as Sherlock had intended.  Facing him was a blue screen.  Another blue screen.  It had been almost six weeks since the last one.

"I take it you know something about what happened here?"  John took a few steps over, hesitantly, placing the bag containing dinner on the table between them.

Sherlock didn't even look up from the microscope nor from the dark burgundy gelatinous mass of something at this point unidentifiable in a specimen bowl on the table at his elbow.  "No clue."

John resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose, knowing the frequency of times he made that very gesture here in the flat, and John sighed as he sensed his relaxing evening just went up in smoke, and not like the literal smoke from last week's ash demonstration.  His retained work bag from Mobile Computer Support never went too far away, and he found what he needed, got to work.  A few attempts later, John was still staring at a blue screen, all efforts to this point unsuccessful.

"Why the hell can you not use your _own_ computer?"

Matter of fact, almost monotone came the reply.  "Yours was closer."  He didn't raise his head, just looked up at John with a sparkling eye.  "I thought your virus definitions were up to date?"

"Of course they bloody are.  But you can not be so dense that you stumble on links or sites that are malicious, by accident?  Seriously, you know not to click on certain things by this point, don't you?"

John could swear he saw Sherlock's eyebrows wriggle in delight.  "What can I say, John.  I was researching cryptovirus."

John felt the wind knocked out of him just slightly.  Cryptovirus was rampant in business and personal computers, John knew, and ransomware was never fun, and not cheap, to recover.  "Why would you be researching those?"

His expression was downright mirthful now.  "Because it was your computer.  I like to know how things work, I don't like not knowing things.  And I was _bored_."

John considered, not for the first time, that there were no passwords - and no virus protection - that were quite enough for his flatmate.  Hopefully he wasn't bored enough that he'd disabled the back up services as well.  "Sherlock, you didn't..."

Sherlock laughed, then, "No, John, I would never do something quite that unconscionable."

 

~fin~

  

**Author's Note:**

> Apparently www.geeksquad.co.uk is a thing in England.
> 
> Chronic lung disease can certainly cause all of the symptoms John points out in the photo, and it is not unusual for someone with asthma to carry an inhaler on their person at all times.
> 
> I work with a surgeon who has in his possession a pelvis xray complete with, yes, vacuum wand attachment neatly and fully inside the patient. Surgeons have great stories, in my opinion, about foreign bodies. So do A&E nurses. I would recommend a strong stomach though, before you get any of them reminiscing.
> 
> Apologies for loose interpretation of recruitment procedures. Hopefully the inaccuracies are not terribly distracting. Also, apologies for some procedural creative liberty with tech support and what is IRL much more complicated than the details presented here when trying to restore someone's computer.
> 
> Cryptovirus is a malware program that can take over a person's computer, and the computer is then locked up and taken "hostage." In order to regain access, it is necessary to either restore the computer from a reputable back up or pay the "ransom" fee required to get control again.
> 
> Kudos or comments always greatly appreciated if you're inclined. Un-beta'd and not Brit-picked - please let me know (nicely) if there are huge, fixable details.


End file.
